The Fledgling
by SupernaturallyEgocentric
Summary: Kids are disappearing in Evanston. The police have no idea what's going on. Now Sam Winchester and his friend Joey are missing. Will they be found? Or will they join the hundreds of thousands of other kids that go missing in the U.S. every year? COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

_Child Endangerment. Adult themes. Some language. _

_Disclaimer: Come on, guys, if I owned SUPN, would I still be working customer service? _

* * *

><p>Sam peeked warily over the top of his covers. Dean was fast asleep, light snores stirring the sheet he'd pulled over his head.<p>

Keeping a careful eye on his brother, Sam eased out of bed and crept to the bathroom. Then, pulling the door shut, he pulled off his pajamas to reveal jeans and t-shirt underneath.

Holding his breath, he looked out the bathroom door. Still quiet. A wide nervous grin on his fine-boned face, he tiptoed past his brother's bed, hooking his sneakers and jacket from where he'd left them and slid silently out the front door.

Halfway down the stairs, he stopped to pull on his shoes. He could hear a mad hissing from down below and he urgently waved his cohort to silence. Even drunk, Dean had ears like a freaking_ bat_.

Then, with one more quick look at the dark window of their motel room, Sam ran lightly down the stairs and into the night.

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><p><em>Gah!<em> Dean groaned. His mouth felt like a sewer - too many beers the night before - too many cigarettes - too much tongue -

He grinned smugly to himself. Strike that last. No such thing as too much tongue.

Moving slowly, he kicked off the covers and stretched, setting off a cascade of crackling pops, and then levered himself into a sitting position.

"Hey, Sammy, up and at 'em."

Big silence.

"Sam?" He flicked a glance toward the other bed - empty - and then toward the bathroom. The door was open and it was dark inside.

Kid must have gone to school already. Dean yawned and then hauled himself out of bed.

Shower. _Coffee. _

Then, later, he'd give that sweet little Corinne a call, see if she could come out and play. _Heh_.

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><p>The motel's meager hot water supply exhausted, Dean stepped out of the shower, shaking water from his sandy hair. He dried himself, mouth twisting a little at the threadbare towels, pulled on jeans and a t-shirt, and then wandered into their room's little kitchen.<p>

It was fairly clean, none of Sam's usual breakfast disaster lying around. He poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot he'd started before his shower, sneered at the empty box of Lucky Charms still lying around from yesterday, and slouched onto the room's little couch, staring into space.

After a time, the hairs on the back of his neck started a nervous tickle. Dean stared around the room, trying to track down the reason for his sudden uneasiness.

No breakfast mess. His own unmade bed. Sam's. His brother's book bag by the front door . . . What, book bag?

It's Saturday!

So where the hell is Sam?

Jumping up from the couch, he retrieved his cell phone from his bedside table and dialed Sam's cell. Almost immediately, a phone started ringing somewhere in the room and he searched for it, cursing, until he dug it out from under Sam's pillow.

Dean huffed out an angry breath. Damn kid _never_ remembered to take it with him!

There was a quiet knock at the door. With one long step he crossed the worn carpet to the door, flinging it open. "Damn it, Sam -!"

Oops. _Not _Sam. Instead, a woman of about forty - graying blond hair, faded blue eyes and a seen-better-days house dress - staring back at him with some alarm.

"Mr. Cade." She looked hesitantly past him into the shabby room. "Is Sam here?"

Ah. Joey's mom. The two of them lived downstairs. Sam and her son had been hanging out together for the last few weeks.

Dean shook his head, impatient, wanting her to leave so he could find and kick Sam's butt. "No ma'am, I'm sorry, he's not here."

She chewed nervously on her lower lip. "Oh." Ill at ease with the angry-eyed young man, she went on haltingly. "I'm looking for Joey. I was hoping he'd be with Sam."

Dean's eyes sharpened, paying attention now.

"I've called all his other friends and they haven't seen him," she rushed on. "I thought maybe Sam had seen him. I probably shouldn't be worrying, it's just -"

Dean interrupted her. "Sam was gone when I woke up this morning."

"Oh, they're probably together then," she said, relieved. "If they're together, it's okay. Two boys together. I just wish Joey'd told me he'd be going out so early."

"How early?"

"Well, I woke up at six and he was already gone."

Dean looked at his watch. Ten a.m. They'd been gone four hours, probably more. Sam would never stay out this long without telling Dean. Never.

"I'll find them," he said to the woman curtly. Closing the door in her startled face, he grabbed his jacket and car keys, left a quickly scribbled note - _call me!_ - on the kitchen table near Sam's cell and went out to find his brother.

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><p>Dean checked the park. He checked the schools, the movie theatres, the arcades, the hospitals. And at last, God help him, he checked the morgue.<p>

As the hours passed, increasingly more frantic, he drove further out, into the suburbs, and then back again into the Evanston's city proper - endless swooping circles, searching for Sam's slim build and dark shaggy hair among crowds of laughing kids - a sick, hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Pulling over on a side street, for the hundredth time he called Sam's cell, on the off chance he'd gone home and simply missed the note on the kitchen table.

No answer. Straight to voice mail. He closed the phone and drew in a shaky breath. "Sam. _Where are you?"_

He knew he should call his father, but just the _thought_ of that call sent a sharp stab of fear and pain through him.

John Winchester would go ballistic. Furious that Dean had waited this long to call; angry at Sam for breaking the rules; freaking _berserk_ that his eldest had let this happen. Dean almost letting the strega get his baby brother those many years ago was _nothing _compared to this.

And John would be right. This _was_ his fault. Sam was a kid. He couldn't judge what was safe and what wasn't. _Dean _knew and still, he'd ignored the rules. He'd let his brother hang out with Joey, let him walk to school with the kid instead of driving him there.

Hell, he'd even let Sam stay over one night at Joey's. Sure, he'd just wanted the kid to have some fun, get a taste of normal before his life was totally consumed by the hunt, but that was no excuse.

He _had _to find his brother. Had to. The problem was, he had no idea where to look.

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><p>When he went back to the motel, Sam wasn't there.<p>

The cops were.

Joey's mom, wild-eyed and frantic, rushed to the Impala, followed by two uniformed officers. She peered hopefully into the car, but seeing only Dean, dissolved into wild, frightened sobs.

One of the officers drew her away, patting her gently on the shoulder. The other officer waited until Dean got out of the car. "Dean Cade?"

Tight-lipped, Dean nodded.

"Mrs. Adrian has reported her son missing. She says your brother is missing, too?"

"I've been out looking for them," Dean confirmed tautly. "I don't know Joey very well, but this isn't like Sam. He usually sticks pretty close to home."

The officer nodded. "I'm sure everything's okay," he said reassuringly, "but we should probably keep an eye out for them. Do you have a picture of Sam?"

Dean shook his head. "Nothing recent." He gave the officer a description of his brother, which the man jotted down in his notebook.

"And he's how old?"

"Twelve." Dean's breath caught and he looked away, biting his lip.

"I'm going to need to speak with your parents," the officer said matter-of-factly.

"It's just our Dad," Dean said. "He's out of town until next week."

"You'd better call him."

There was an undercurrent to the man's voice that Dean didn't entirely understand, something the man wasn't sharing. Two missing kids, yeah, freaking bad, but something more was going on here, something that had Dean's alarms going off even more than they already had been.

"What aren't you saying?" he asked suspiciously.

The officer dropped his eyes for a split second and Dean's stomach dropped right along with them.

He took a step closer. "What aren't you telling me?"

The officer looked over at his partner, who'd seated Joey's mom on the stairs. She was weeping into her hands, the policeman speaking soothingly to her.

"We've had a few kids go missing over the last year," the man finally said in a low voice.

Dean was silent for a long moment, digesting the implications of that. "Did you find them?"

The officer shook his head.

Dean had to force his next question out. "No bodies?"

"Not a damned thing."

Seeing Dean's shaken face, the cop said, "Listen, just because your brother's missing doesn't mean something's happened to him. You know kids. The two of them will probably drag their asses back here any minute, wondering what all the fuss is about."

Dean nodded mechanically, knowing that the man was just trying to help, but also knowing that he was completely full of shit. Sam wasn't just _any _kid. He wouldn't stay out this long, no matter what. He'd call, or come home. If he were able to.

He walked back to the Impala and pulled out his cell phone. He couldn't put it off any longer. It was time to call Dad.

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><p>The room was small and dark. The two boys had searched the room, but it was empty, except for a bucket in the corner, which neither of them could bring themselves to use. There was a window, but it was too high to reach, even when Joey stood on Sam's shoulders.<p>

Sam was furious with himself. Whatever happened to them here, it was _his _damned fault. He'd been so damned stupid! Whatever happened now, he deserved it. But not Joey. He was just a kid, and that was a built-in excuse for being stupid enough to get caught up in whatever the hell this was.

Sam didn't have that excuse. He hadn't been a kid in a long time. He'd known the rules, the risks - ignored them both - and now the two of them were neck-deep in shit and sinking fast.

Joey had cried himself to sleep hours ago. He lay now on the floor in a corner of the room, curled into a tight, frightened little ball. Looking down at his friend's tear-stained face, Sam's breath hitched and he fought back the fear threatening to overwhelm him.

He _had _to stay strong. If they were going to get out of here, if he was ever going to see Dean again, and Dad, it was all up to him.


	2. Chapter 2

Just after dawn, the door opened.

Mouth set, Sam reached down and shook Joey awake. With a gasp, the other boy scrambled to his feet, pressing himself further back into the corner, Sam ranging himself protectively in front of him.

An overhead bulb came on, leaving the two boys blinking in the sudden light. On the heels of that, two men came through the door, the snick of it closing behind them near-explosive in the otherwise absolute silence.

"Hey!" One of them, tall, red-haired and reed-thin, grinned maliciously. "How you two doing?"

Joey peeked out from behind Sam, eyes wide. "Who - who -" he stammered. Sam nudged him back with a warning hiss.

"What are you, a freaking owl?" The redhead grinned, eyes shining with spiteful humor. He nudged his companion at the joke.

The other man was bald, and big, even bigger than Sam's dad. He looked Sam up and down, head to toes, and Sam's skin crawled. The stranger's eyes were completely impersonal, assessing. As if Sam were merchandise, and he were deciding how much to charge for him.

Trying to get a look at Joey, the man reached over to nudge Sam to the side and the boy angrily knocked his hand away.

Pleased, the big man laughed. "Hey, Jerry, check it out, we got us a wildcat!"

"Ma Jenner, she don't much like wildcats, Mitch," Jerry said.

"Well_, I_ do," the big man retorted, grinning at Sam. "You a wildcat, boy?"

Sam didn't answer, kept himself ready, gaze flicking back and forth between the two men.

Blowing out an impatient breath, the redhead started to reach around Sam to pull Joey out. With a snarl, Sam struck, the pocket knife Dean had given him for his last birthday slashing the man's bare arm.

"Shit!" Jerry pulled back. "What the _hell_!"

The two adults stared in astonishment at the suddenly savage boy crouched in front of them. Sam bared his teeth. "Back _off_!" he growled.

Mitch gave a shout of laughter. Glaring at his partner, blood dripping down his arm and to the floor, Jerry started forward. "You little bastard!"

Mitch shoved him back. "Knock it off." He grinned again at Sam. "Some people _like _a little cayenne in their coffee."

Sam tried to hide the shudder that rippled over him as the man's eyes ran over him again, this time with a disturbing, and much more personal, interest.

"Damn it, dude, I'm _bleedin' _here," Jerry whined, clutching his arm.

"So go get patched up," Mitch said unsympathetically. "This just got interesting."

Jerry shuffled out of the room, muttering angrily under his breath. The door slammed behind him and Sam glanced toward it, judging the distance.

Mitch read his expression correctly, laughed. "Don't bother, boy. Even if you get past me, there's nowhere to go."

"What do you want with us?" Sam demanded, hazel eyes blazing.

"You look like a smart kid," Mitch said. "I'm sure you can figure it out." He ran his eyes over Sam again, didn't try to hide the hunger in his eyes. He stretched a hand out teasingly.

"You want to cut me, too, boy?" Sam held firm, didn't move, even when the man's hand brushed teasingly near his face. "You want to _hurt_ me, boy?" The man started to ease forward.

Sam steadied himself, ready to strike.

"Mitch!" The voice was a whiplash.

The big man winced. "Yeah?" His voice was resigned.

Sam's eyes darted around him and saw an old woman standing at the door, scowling. She was short, skinny and wrinkled as hell. She looked a lot like a grandma he'd seen on an old show on T.V. A _lot _meaner, though.

"Just what the hell is going on?" She shut the door with a quick jerk and walked angrily over to them.

"Nothing much, Ma," Mitch drawled. "Just a little tussle."

"A little tussle doesn't explain Jerry bleeding all over my carpets," his mother snapped. She stood at his side, glaring down at the boys. "What the hell are you waiting for, Mitch? Take that knife away from him!"

Mitch grinned. "He's pretty quick with that thing."

"Stop screwing around," she said harshly. "The cops are already looking for these two. We need to move them out."

Mitch glanced back down at Sam. The big man's eyes gleamed. "Okay, little man. Hand it over."

Sam shoved back closer against Joey, shaking his head.

Mitch started to turn toward the woman. "You see, Ma, he's a _stubborn _little -" with no warning he spun back and caught Sam a glancing blow to the side of his face with a big hand, knocking him spinning to the floor. The knife clattered to the floor and the big man scooped it up with a triumphant grin.

He swooped down on Sam then, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt and hauling him up so that his feet dangled a couple of feet above the floor. He brought him close in, shook him playfully. "Gotcha!"

Sam swung at the man's face, trying to squirm out of his grasp. The man just tightened his grip, laughing. With a desperate howl, Joey joined the fray, kicking Mitch in the legs repeatedly. "Put him down! Put him _down_!"

Mitch grabbed Joey by the shirt with his free hand, pulled him up. "You want to play, too?"

"_Mitch_."

Mitch looked over, saw his mother's impatiently tapping foot and grinned at her. He lowered the boys to the floor, keeping a hand on each, controlling them easily. "Just havin' a little fun, Ma."

"Fun don't pay the rent, Mitch," she said. She stared down at the boys. "How old are you?" she asked Joey.

He stared at her wide-eyed and silent and Ma Jenner reached out and smacked him lightly on the cheek. "How old?"

"Twelve," he whispered. "Please, I want to go home!"

Ignoring his plea, she looked at Sam. "You?"

Sam scowled. "Go screw yourself!"

Mitch drew in a quick breath, looked warily at his mother. Her cold black eyes narrowed and she reached out, twisting a hand through Sam's hair, jerking it tight. "How old!"

"Too young for you, you old bat!" he spat at her.

Mitch bit his lip, turned his face away from his mother, fighting back a grin.

She tightened her grip, drawing an involuntary gasp out of Sam, and Joey yelled, "Twelve, he's twelve, too! Don't hurt him!"

She stared at the two boys, considering. "This one," she said finally to Mitch, nodding at Joey. "I think our buyer in Florida will like him."

Mitch nodded in agreement. "What about the wildcat?"

She tapped a forefinger considering against her lower lip. "He might be a little harder to place." Her mouth twisted. "He's gonna have to go to someone who likes a little - fight."

Mitch grunted, staring at Sam. Seeing how he was looking at the boy, she frowned. "He's worth money, Mitch. I don't want you marking him."

He nodded, eyes still glued longingly to Sam.

"Mitch!" Ma Jenner said sharply and his gaze jumped back reluctantly to her. "I don't want you touching him! I mean it!"

Her eyes caught his and he nodded grudgingly, shoving both boys away and back into the corner.

Sam shoved Joey behind him again and faced the two adults challengingly.

Mitch shook his head admiringly. _Brave little cuss_, he thought.

_It'd be fun to break him._

_XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX_

Dean closed his phone, barely restraining himself from throwing it into the wall. "Damn it, Dad!" He grabbed hold of the edge of the table, fighting for control. "Where the _hell _are you!"

Two days. Sammy'd been missing for _two days_.

In that time Dean had left countless messages on his Dad's cell. None had been returned and now the cops were starting to look at him funny, probably wondering if he and Sam even had a dad, if they were on their own.

If - _when - _they got Sam back, CPS wouldn't be far behind, if their father didn't get back soon.

Damn it, had he lost his phone, or was he just out of range? Did he know what was happening? Did he even give a shit that his youngest son was missing, maybe dead?

Deep inside, Dean knew that last question was unfair. His dad loved Sam. He might not always show it, might not understand his youngest son, but he loved him, and if he knew what was going on, he'd be here.

Dean ran a hand wearily over his face and then opened his cell again. He searched through his contact list, dialed a number. When a voice on the other end of the line answered immediately, he closed his eyes in relief.

"Bobby?" His voice was tight, panic just barely reined in. "Bobby, we need you."


	3. Chapter 3

Sorry this chapter is late. My darling one, Riley Joy, Queen of the Pugs, passed on this week, and my heart is breaking. Been a little hard to focus. Hope you like the chap.

WARNING FOR STRONG LANGUAGE AND CHILD ENDANGERMENT.

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The door opened silently, thanks to the WD-40 Jerry had slathered over the hinges. He eased into the room, closing the door carefully behind him, then stood still, waiting for his eyes to adapt to the near-total darkness.

He could hear the breathing of the two boys on the other side of the room, see their dark shadows against the paler walls of the room. It looked like Mitch's wildcat had finally fallen asleep - he was slumped against his friend, head sunk down onto his chest.

He didn't have much time, knew he shouldn't be doing this at all - _knew_ it - but he just couldn't let the kid go without a little payback for the slashed arm - just a few slaps, a kick or two. Something to remind him of Jerry in his new, and probably short, life.

Eyes gleaming with malice, he slid across the room toward the boys.

But - Jerry hadn't reckoned on the sharp ears of the youngest Winchester.

Nerves strung tight, Sam waited.

_Not yet. Not - yet. _

At last, feeling the whisper of hot breath on his cheek, Sam grabbed the bucket from the floor beside him and smashed it into the intruder's face.

Stunned, Jerry fell on top of Joey and the youngster woke up screaming, thrashing to get out from under the man. With a howl, Sam plunged on top of them both, smashing the bucket down on Jerry's head again, the man's cry of anger and pain mingling with the crunch of broken bone.

When the man was still, Sam pulled Joey out from under him. Blue eyes wide with horror, Joey stared at Jerry's prone body. "Is he dead?"

"Don't know," Sam said tersely. "Don't care." He ran his hands over Jerry, looking for a weapon, but there was nothing, not even a cell phone. "Damn it!"

They ran for the door, flung it open and ran right into Ma Jenner. "What the –" The old woman grabbed Sam by the arm, sank long nails into his flesh. "_Mitch! Jerry_!"

"Let me go, you _bitch_!" Sam tried to pull away, gasping as she dug her nails in deeper, drawing blood, Joey pulling at him from the other side.

Feeling her grip start to loosen, the woman swung at him, fist connecting solidly with his head, startling a cry out of him. Vision blurring with the force of the blow, Sam gritted his teeth, doubled his fist and punched her hard in the stomach, sending her to the floor, gasping for air.

"Come on, come on!" Joey groaned, pulling at him. They started for the elevator at the end of the hall. Before they reached it, a door opened just beyond it. Not waiting to see who came through, they whirled and ran back toward the other end of the hall, and the door leading to the stairs.

As the two boys went through the exit, an angry roar filled the hall. Sam looked back to see Mitch bending over his mother. The big man raised his head and stared at him, face red with rage and Sam blanched and ran into the stairwell, slamming the door shut behind him.

Joey was running up the stairs, already almost up to the next floor. "Joey, come back!"

Joey didn't stop. If anything, he ran faster.

"Joe!" Head pounding from the Ma Jenner's blow, Sam ran after his friend, caught him two floors up. "Joe, we gotta go _down -" _

The stairwell door slammed open below. "Wildcat!" Mitch's voice boomed.

Trembling, Sam and Joey looked down the stairs and saw the big man gazing up at them. The three stared at each other for a long moment, then Mitch's mouth stretched wide in a wolfish grin, and the boys broke, sprinting up the last two flights of stairs.

The sound of Mitch pounding up the stairs after them filling Sam's ears, he followed Joey through the door to the roof and slammed it shut, looking around desperately for something to block it. Grabbing a small piece of wood off the ground, he jammed it under the bottom of the heavy door. "Please hold, please hold, please _hold_!"

Mitch threw himself against the other side of the door and Sam threw himself backward, landing on his butt. Joey hauled him to his feet and the boys stared at the door, eyes wide with fear. Another thud, and then another.

The door held.

"Wildcat!" Mitch shouted . "You open this door, now! I have to break it down, Ma's gonna be mighty upset!"

Neither of them answered and Mitch threw himself against the door again. "Wildcat!"

"Look for a fire escape," Sam said urgently to Joey. "We've got to get off this roof before he gets through!"

They separated, running to different sides of the roof. When Sam looked over the side, he saw that they were about ten floors up on a red-brick building in the middle of a warehouse district. It was past dawn, but there was no traffic on the street, and no pedestrians. The building next door was too far of a jump, and he couldn't see a fire escape.

Sam ran a shaking hand through his hair. More than anything he wanted to see the Impala cruising down the street. More than anything, he wanted his brother's arms around him.

More than anything, he wanted a freaking gun!

Even this far from the rooftop door, he could hear Mitch still throwing himself against it, could hear his raging curses. His blood ran cold at the thought of what would happen if - _when _- the man made it through the door. He knew Mitch wouldn't kill them, but he wasn't sure he wouldn't prefer that to what the man and his mother had in mind.

And if the old woman were angry enough about him hitting her, she might give him to her son. She might - he would - a wave of nausea rolled over him and he ruthlessly cut off that line of thought. _Don't think about that now. Think about how to save your stupid ass!_

"Sam, here!" Joey waved from the other side of the roof_._ As Sam ran to him, his friend pointed excitedly over the edge. "Look!"

A fire escape ladder, leading almost all the way down to the street! Sam's breath blew out in a gasp of relief.

Then there was a dull boom as the beleaguered rooftop door finally gave way and the boys spun around to see Mitch explode out onto the rooftop.

The big man spotted the boys just as they went over the edge of the roof. Swearing, he ran over to the side and looked over. They were already ten feet down and moving fast.

He pulled his cell phone out, dialed. "Ma, they're going down the front of the building. Send Jerry out there . . . What? . . . I don't care if his fucking head falls _off_, tell that asshole to get out there before someone sees them!"

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Sam's foot slipped on the rain damp ladder and he fell against it, gasping, not daring to look down. Joey, following closely, almost stepped on him. "Come on, move it, Jesus, go!"

"Sorry," Sam croaked. "Sorry." He found his footing, started down again.

"Oh shit! Hurry, he's coming!" Joey groaned and Sam looked up to see that Mitch had come over the edge of the roof after them.

They went faster, Sam trying not to think about the open space beneath them, what they'd look like if they fell, what it would feel like slamming into the pavement – his foot slipped again and he clutched the ladder frantically, the thought of the empty space yawning below him freezing his limbs.

"Go, go!" Joey screamed frantically.

Cursing himself for a coward, Sam forced himself to move - not fast enough, God, not nearly fast enough.

"Hey!" A shout from above and both boys looked up to see Mitch grinning down at them. He pointed past them and they looked down to see Jerry scowling up at them.

"You sure you want to go down there?" Mitch shouted jocularly. "Jerry looks pretty pissed!"

Sam looked at Joey. "We can make it past him, he's just one guy!" he said desperately.

Joey's eyes widened. "No, Sam, wait!"

_Jerry was climbing up._

"No!" Sam stared around frantically. No one on the street, no windows close enough to get to. Mitch coming down, Jerry climbing up and - he saw now - Ma Jenner standing on the sidewalk staring up at them. "No!"

_Wait_.

A drainpipe, about three feet away from the ladder. And, maybe ten feet down, just a few feet on the other side of the drainpipe, a window ledge.

If they were careful, they could reach the pipe. If they were lucky, it would hold their weight long enough for them to get to the ledge. And if they were _really_ lucky, someone would see them up here and call the cops.

They had to risk it. Sam reached over and grabbed the drainpipe, feeling his way carefully, tensing at the slight creak in the pipe as it took his weight.

"Wait till I get to the ledge, Joey!" he gasped. "It won't hold us both!"

Joey looked up, paled. Mitch was just a few feet above them. "Hurry!"

Sam started to slide down the drainpipe, ignoring the scraping and tearing of his hands as they slide down the rough metal. He was just a few feet away from the ledge now.

Joey screamed. Sam's head jerked up at the cry. Mitch had Joey by the hair, the boy struggling to get away.

"Damn you!" Sam shouted. "Let him go, you bastard!"

Joey flailed at Mitch with one hand, clung to the ladder with the other. Mitch cursed, trying to get hold of something more than the boy's hair, grabbing for his sweatshirt, his shoulder, anything to strengthen his grip.

Sam stretched out, reaching for the ladder to climb back up and help his friend, but the pipe was shuddering beneath his weight, starting to pull away from the wall.

With a wild cry, Joey at last pulled away from Mitch, leaving a large hank of his blond hair in the man's fist and leapt for the drainpipe.

Sam felt his friend's weight hit the pipe, felt it groan under his hands, knew it was going to go. No time, no time! Gotta jump, jump for the ledge, _jump_!

Screaming inside his head, no breath left, Sam jumped for the ledge, brain gibbering with fear at the empty air beneath him. Hard impact, tearing fingernails as he hit the ledge and scrabbled for purchase, sick feeling in his stomach as he started to sway backward, managed to crouch and save himself.

"Joey, jump!" he cried out, knowing it was too late, too goddamned _late_.

"Sam!"

Fluttering on the ledge, Sam looked up to see the pipe pulling away from the wall - Joey still clinging to it, blue eyes stretched wide in terror - Mitch reaching out desperately to pull him back to the ladder.

He missed.

With a scream of tortured metal, the drainpipe tore away from the wall, and the pipe and Joey fell to the street below.


	4. Chapter 4

Dean opened the motel door and Bobby pushed in. "Any word?"

Dean shook his head silently and Bobby frowned with concern. "You look like hell, boy," he said bluntly. And Dean did. If he'd slept at all in the last two days, it didn't show. Kid was white as milk, his eyes sunk deep into his head.

"You reach your dad yet?"

Dean turned away with another shake of his head and sank down on the couch, lowering his face into his hands. "I don't know what the hell to do, Bobby. I've looked everywhere. Sam - I can't find him."

Bobby sat down next to him, ran a hand soothingly over his back. "What do the cops say?"

Dean laughed bitterly. "Nothing. Just that they've had some kids go missing over the last year or so. None of them were ever found, alive or dead, and there's nothing to show whether it's our kind of gig or not - could be demons, ghosts - could be just freaking _people_."

"I don't know why Sam left our room that night, so I can't go to wherever he disappeared from. I got nothing to follow!" He leaned back, closed his eyes, drained. "Christ, Bobby, where the hell is he?"

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A voice pulled Sam out of the darkness.

Groggy, disoriented, he raised his head and looked through the window straight into Mitch's eyes. With a sharp cry, he jerked back, then, feeling the empty sky yawning behind him, threw himself forward, plastering himself against the glass.

Mitch's voice, though pitched to reach him through the glass, was gentle. "Let's get you in here, kid.",

He reached for the window, stopped when Sam cast a wild look at the street far below. "No! If you open the window, I'll - I'll -"

"What, you'll jump?" Mitch asked sardonically. "It's a long way down, wildcat."

Sam glared at Mitch. "Joey! He_ - _you-" Tears started down his face and he brushed them away angrily.

Mitch shook his head. "I'm not the one who took him out on the roof." He shrugged as Sam flinched. "If you'd just stayed put, that boy would be on the way to Florida, not spread out all over the street."

_No!_ Sam's face twisted. _Joey. _He moaned, low and guttural. _My fault - my fault!_

"Let me help you, kid." Mitch's smile was feline, his voice coaxing.

A sudden movement behind him and Ma Jenner appeared in the window beside her son. She was disheveled, haggard - her cream-colored pantsuit spotted with blood. "Mitch!"

The big man stared at her, aghast. "What the hell –" he stopped short in sudden suspicion. "Where's Jerry?"

"Where do you think?" Ma answered acidly. She handed a gun to her son. "Shoot that little troublemaker."

Mitch paled. "What?"

"That boy is dead. This one knows our faces." she said coldly. "Accident or not, they catch us, we go down for murder. Do it!"

Her son shook his head stubbornly. "No, Ma. Give me a minute. We can take him with us. I want - "

"We don't have a minute!" she snapped. "The cops are already on the way!" Seeing that he wasn't going to obey, she tried to take the gun back so she could take care of it herself, but he held it up and away from her.

Breathing hard, Ma Jenner stepped back from her son. "Damn you for a fool, boy!" She stomped away, turned back at the door. "I'm leaving in five minutes!" she shot at him. "If you're not down by then, you can find your own damn way home!"

When she was gone, Mitch turned back to Sam. "Got a temper, don't she?" he called out to the boy. "We'd better get going, before she leaves us!"

Sam didn't respond. Mitch laid his hand against the glass next to Sam's face. The boy didn't react, simply stared, pupils blown wide.

"Kid?"

Through the window, he could hear the whooping wail of approaching sirens.

"Damn it!"

He stepped back from the window, stared at Sam - the wounded hazel eyes, shaggy brown hair hanging down into his face, the trembling mouth - his stomach clenched tight with want and need.

The sirens stopped in the street below.

Mitch took a reluctant step away from Sam, then another. "I'm coming back for you, wildcat!" he said fiercely.

With a final searing look, he turned and followed his mother.

))))))))))))))))))))

Detective Hector Portillo crouched down next to the boy's broken body. "Son of a _bitch_."

"From the description, it's probably Joseph Adrian." His partner, Roberta Loggia, pushed an errant lock of red hair back from her face. "No sign of the Cade boy yet."

Portillo straightened up. As he stepped back from the body, the waiting medical examiner and two paramedics came forward, surrounding the body.

"Anyone inside?"

"We found a body right inside the front door. Male, probably in his fifties. No i.d. Shot in the face. Nothing else, yet. We've got men searching, but it's ten, twelve floors, so it'll take a while." Robbie sighed. "Damn it, six kids missing - and now _this_."

"We've got the dead guy. We'll find out who he is," Portillo said determinedly. "If anyone else is involved, we'll get them, too."

"So you don't think he was on his own."

Portillo shook his head. "This is feeling like something more than just one predator. Something bigger, organized."

Robbie nodded in agreement. Her face was grim, thinking of Joey Adrian's mother. It was her turn to do the family notification; it would be rough. The woman was about to get the worst news of her already hard life and she definitely wasn't the suffer in silence type.

And what about the identification? No way was she dragging that poor woman into the morgue to identify her son, not when the kid looked like -

"What the - _Hey_!"

A sudden shout from one of the paramedics brought both cops spinning around. Their eyes followed the woman's eyes to the front of the building and up -

"Oh, Jesus _Christ!" _Portillo breathed. "Robbie, get fire/rescue up there, _right fucking now!" _He ran for the building.

_))))))))))))))))))))_

The small crowd below watched with baited breath as the fire truck's extension ladder creaked slowly up the side of the building. It came to a halt right next to Sam's ledge.

The sound of the ladder momentarily roused the semi-conscious boy. "_Dean_," he murmured desolately. _Dean, I'm so cold. _With a little moan, he pressed his face to the window - blood from cuts on his cheeks and forehead smearing the glass - then sank back into a dazed stupor.

The fireman on the ladder leaned over the boy and touched his shoulder, ready to grab him if he made any sudden moves. "Hey, kid, can you hear me? Kid?"

When Sam didn't answer, the fireman eased him away from the window, holding him firmly, called to the man waiting inside. "I've got him. Open up!"

The window squealed slowly open. Portillo reached outside and took Sam by the shoulders, and then he and one of the waiting paramedics maneuvered the boy in through the window. The movement roused Sam and he stirred weakly, moaning.

"It's okay, kid. We got you."

They laid Sam on the waiting stretcher and the medics started their examination. At the feel of their gentle hands, Sam's eyes blazed into startled awareness and he reared up, knocking their hands away. "Get _off _of me!"

"Calm down, sweetie." The senior medic, Joanie, spoke soothingly. "We just need to check you out, make sure you're okay."

Looking frantically around the room, Sam gasped, "Where is he? Where is he?"

Portillo's eyes narrowed and he took a step closer. Sam twisted around to face him, hands raised defensively, and Portillo stepped back at a look from Joanie.

"We're paramedics, kid, and this is a police detective," she said. "We're here to help you. Listen, you need to calm down -" Joanie put a hand on Sam's shoulder.

At the woman's touch, Sam snarled and struck her in the face, sending her reeling back with a startled cry.

"Joanie!" Her partner, Greg, grabbed for the boy and got a well-placed foot to the groin; he folded to the floor, clutching himself, whining and gasping for air.

Wild-eyed, Sam threw himself off the stretcher, scrambling for the door and escape.

Stunned at the boy's attack, Portillo lunged forward, grabbing hold of the back of Sam's jacket. Sam sent a blow to Portillo's face. The detective blocked the blow and grabbed Sam by the arm, spinning the struggling boy around and pressing him up against the door. "Easy now, Sam. Take it easy."

At the sound of his name, Sam's body jerked, stilled.

"Aren't you Sam Cade?"

Sam didn't answer, didn't look at him. His breath came in quick pants.

Portillo tried again. "My name is Hector Portillo, Sam. I'm with the Evanston Police Department. I've been looking for you for a couple days now."

"I met your brother, Dean," he added. "He's pretty worried about you."

At those words, Sam shuddered.

Portillo patted the boy's shoulder. "You okay now?"

"_Please_," Sam said brokenly, closing his eyes. "Please. I need my brother_." _

_))))))))))))))))))))_

The automatic doors to Evanston Memorial Hospital swished open and Dean ran in, Bobby right behind him. Skidding to a halt in front of the nurses' station, Dean gasped, "My brother, Sam Cade! The cops told me he was being brought here!"

"Cade?" The receptionist typed the name into her computer, stilled for an almost imperceptible moment, then she picked up her phone, dialed an extension and spoke quietly for a moment. When she hung up, she smiled reassuringly at the frantic teenager. "Dr. Drake will be right out."

"What? Just _tell _me –" Dean stilled as Bobby laid a calming hand on his shoulder, spoke quietly into his ear. "Okay. Okay."

It wasn't more than a minute before two men came through the inner doors to the emergency room. One was a doctor in scrubs, a man in his mid-thirties, short, with thinning hair and kind, brown eyes. The man accompanying him was clearly a cop. Hispanic, about John's age, with a thick build and graying black hair.

The doctor looked at Bobby. "Mr. Cade?"

"I'm Dean Cade! Sam's my brother. Is he – is Sam okay?" Dean was so terrified he could barely get the words out.

"He's going to be fine." Dean's breath whooshed out with relief. Bobby patted his shoulder reassuringly.

"I'm Doctor Drake. I've been treating your brother. He has some cuts and bruises, and his hands are a little torn up," the doctor continued, "but we're taking care of that. Emotionally, of course – " he stopped himself, gestured to the man beside him. "This is Detective Portillo."

The detective nodded, looked at Bobby. "And you are?"

"Bobby Singer. I'm the boys' uncle," Bobby answered gruffly. "Their dad's on the road. We haven't been able to reach him."

Portillo nodded. "I'm going to need to speak with you." He turned to the doctor. "If you could take Dean to see his brother?"

Dean wanted to find out what had happened to Sam, but more than that he _needed_ to get to his brother, make sure he was okay. Nothing else mattered, not right now. With an anxious glance at Bobby, he followed Dr. Drake through the swinging doors.

Bobby looked grimly at the detective. "Tell me."

))))))))))))))))))))

Dean followed the doctor down the hall, past cubicles with drawn curtains, the smell of antiseptic, blood and bleach strong in his nostrils. Approaching the last cubicle, outside of which stood a uniformed policeman, the doctor started to pull the curtain back.

"No!"

There was a loud crash. "No! _No_!"

Dean pushed past the doctor and ripped the curtain back, the policeman right behind him.

Sam stood, back pressed against the wall, eyes dilated and gasping for breath, facing off against a male nurse with a hypodermic.

"Sam!"

His little brother's gaze flashed over to him, eyes hazy, trying to focus.

Dean stepped closer. "It's okay, Sammy, I'm here," he said gently. Assessing green eyes flicked down to his brother's bandaged hands, then back up to his face, the dark bruises and nasty cuts, the agonized eyes. "I'm here."

Sam swayed, gulped. "Dean?" His legs buckled and he went down.

With two long strides, Dean was across the room and down on the floor next to his brother. He pulled him into his arms, onto his lap. "It's okay, Sammy. I got you."

"I got you."


	5. Chapter 5

Dean picked Sam up, sat on the bed with him. He held him tight against his chest, the boy's head tucked under his chin, rocking him gently back and forth. Exhausted, Sam lay against him, hands fisted tightly in Dean's shirt as if afraid his brother would vanish.

"It's okay, Sammy, it's okay," Dean murmured. He was content. Sam was back with him now, and that was all that mattered. Whatever shit had happened, whatever was wrong, he would fix it. He had Sam back. Everything else was extraneous.

Half-asleep, Sam murmured, "Dean, where's Dad?" He felt Dean stiffen, knew what was coming.

"I'm sorry, Sam, I couldn't reach him," Dean said apologetically. "He probably lost his cell, or he's not getting reception. I'm sure he'll come as soon as he gets my voicemails."

Tears stung Sam's eyes and he willed them back. Just about what he'd expected. Since when had anything in his sons' lives mattered more to their dad than the hunt? Still, part of him had thought that for _this_, his dad might make the effort. He needed his dad, _needed _him.

He pushed that useless thought away. I've got Dean. _He's _all I need.

After a while, Bobby came in and sat down on the bed beside them. At the sudden movement, Sam flinched, eyes widening, and clutched hard at Dean with a gasp.

"It's okay, baby, it's just Bobby." Dean kissed the top of Sam's head, rubbed familiar, comforting circles on his back.

"Hey, Sam," Bobby said quietly. He reached out, patted the boy's shoulder, looked into Dean's eyes. Dean knew, whatever the cop had told Bobby, it was bad. _Bad_. Bobby looked like he'd been gut shot.

"Bobby," Sam whispered hoarsely. He cleared his throat, tried again. "Thanks for coming."

"That's what family does, Sam." He saw Dean wince, shake his head slightly, silently mouthing _Dad_. After a second Bobby's mouth twisted in bitter understanding.

"Listen, boys, I'm sorry, but that detective's outside," Bobby said reluctantly. "He wants to talk to you, Sam, if you're up to it."

Sam turned slightly towards Bobby. "Did he tell you about Joey?" he asked in a small voice.

"He told me, Sam. I'm so sorry." Bobby reached out to touch Sam again and Sam managed to stay still under Bobby's hand, accept his touch.

"What about Joey?" Dean asked, bewildered. "Didn't they find him with you, Sam?'

When Sam didn't answer, Bobby said grimly, "He's dead."

Dean froze, then pulled Sam back against him, hard. _Thank God it wasn't you. Thank God. Thank you, God. _Sam trembled under him and Dean kissed the top of his head. "It's okay, Sam. I got you. I got you."

Sam sighed, relaxing against him. This felt so good, _Dean _felt so good. Sam wanted to stay like this forever, sink into his brother - let him handle the detective, handle everything. He didn't want to do anything but sleep. Sleep and try to forget. Forget his own stupidity, his guilt, his culpability in Joe's death.

His mom had to know by now that her son was dead. A kid his own age, someone with a life of his own, friends, family, hope for the future. Now there was nothing but a grave and a grieving mother. Joey. God, _Joey_. I'm so sorry. Nausea swept over him and he gagged.

Reading Sam's face, Dean grabbed a nearby basin and stuck it under his head just in time. Not much came up; he hadn't eaten since the night before he'd been taken. When he was finished, Sam wiped his mouth with a shaking hand. "Can I have some water?'

Dean filled a glass from the pitcher next to the bed. Watching him drink, Dean looked up at Bobby. "I don't think he's up to talking right now."

Sam lowered the glass. It wobbled and Dean took it, set it on the bedside table. 'It's okay," Sam protested. "I'm okay."

Dean hesitated, not liking it. "Are you sure?"

Sam wasn't sure at all. He was nearly numb with exhaustion. His imprisonment, the horror of his captors, Joey's death – it was all a huge mishmash. His system was on overload and it was taking everything he had to keep it all inside, to pretend that he was okay. The only thing he _was _sure of was that he had to do this.

Sam nodded, albeit a little nervously. "For Joey."

))))))))))))))))))))

Sam sat in a corner of the room, Dean's chair canted slightly in front of his, a small barrier between his little brother and the police detective.

"Sam."

He looked up. Dean, Bobby, the cop - they were all staring at him. From the expression on their faces, Dean had been trying to get his attention for a while. The sound of his own breathing was suddenly very loud in the quiet cubicle.

The detective had his notebook out. "Take your time, Sam. Tell us what happened that first night."

"Joey had some fireworks left over from the Fourth," Sam began slowly. "We were going over to that park over on Hosea. There's not much traffic over there, especially that late at night. We figured no one would see us; we could set them off, get home before anyone knew we were gone." He looked apologetically at Dean.

"They grabbed us on the way back before we even knew they were there. " He flushed with shame. All the training his Dad and Dean had given them, for what? So two _humans_ could take him? What a waste of training he was. His father would be so disappointed.

"What kind of vehicle?" Portillo asked.

"A white van. A Ford, I think. I don't know what kind. They put us in the back and made us sit on the floor. We went into the building through the parking garage. Then they took us upstairs in a freight elevator and locked us up."

"How many people did you see?"

Trembling, Sam drew a deep unsteady breath. "Three." He named his captors, described them; Portillo writing it all down in his notebook. Dean listened hard, clearly memorizing the details.

"Did they say why they took you?" the detective asked gently.

Sam blushed. The three men didn't say anything to push him - all of them had a pretty damned good idea why, but they needed to hear Sam say it.

"They were going to sell us," Sam said finally, unhappily. "They were talking about sending Joey to someone in Florida."

"Did they mention a name for the buyer?" Portillo asked matter-of-factly.

Sam shook his head.

Careful to keep the rage out of his voice, Dean asked, "Did they say where they were sending you?"

"Ma Jenner - the old lady - said she had to think about it," he said in a low voice. "She said it had to be someone who –" he stopped, not sure about telling the police detective that he'd stabbed someone.

"Sam?" the detective promptly after a moment.

Face red with embarrassment, Sam said, "She said they had to find someone who liked a fight." He looked cautiously at the detective. "I cut one of them when he tried to mess with Joey."

Angry pride flashed through Dean. "Good for you, Sam."

Dean's praise stung and Sam looked away. "It didn't help, did it? Joey died anyway."

Dean took him by the shoulder, forced Sam to look at him. "Not your fault. You screwed up, yeah, but it's not your fault Joey's dead. The dickheads who took you, that's on them, one hundred percent."

Watching as Sam looked away from his brother, Detective Portillo sighed inwardly. This kid was going to have a lot to work through. He'd seen a lot of kids get taken. Those that came back were never the same. It looked like they'd gotten Sam back before they'd done anything irretrievable to him, physically, but his friend's death - hard enough for an adult to deal with something like that, never mind a kid.

Portillo hesitated, then resolutely drew a photograph out of his jacket pocket. "We found a dead man in the building where you and Joe were held, Sam."

Sam's shoulders hunched a little. He glanced at the picture out of the corner of his eye, but didn't reach for it.

"He's been shot, and it's not pretty. I'm sorry to have to ask this, but I need you to tell me if it's one of the men who took you."

Sam wanted, very badly, for the picture to be of Mitch. Mitch, who scared him more than any nonhuman monster ever had.

Mitch, who'd promised to come back for him.

Dean reached out, took the picture and studied it, showed it to Bobby. "Can you look at this, Sam?" Dean asked.

Sam steeled himself, looked at the picture and then quickly away disappointed, nodding an affirmative. "Jerry. He's the one I cut." He looked at the detective pleadingly. "Are we done now?"

Detective Portillo shook his head. He felt bad for the boy, but he had one dead boy and four children still missing. If he were going to have any chance of bringing them home, it might lay with this boy. "I'm sorry, Sam, I know this isn't easy. But we need to know what happened with Joey."

Sam flinched. He dropped his head, mouth trembling. After a minute he began, staring at his hands as he talked.

He took them slowly through those horrible two days, with Portillo interrupting occasionally with clarifying questions. Learning that first day what the kidnappers had in mind for them. Cutting Jerry. Their escape. The roof.

When he was telling how he'd leapt from the ladder to the drainpipe and from there to the ledge, Dean stood up and turned away, shaking. Sam watched him for a moment, feeling unhappy, guilty, then finished his story, voice now a raspy whisper.

Under control now, Dean got a glass of water for Sam and sat back down beside him, put an arm around his shoulder and looked at the detective. "That's enough for now," he said firmly.

Portillo nodded in agreement and stowed away his notebook. He looked compassionately at the trembling boy. "Sam." When Sam looked up, Portillo said, "You did the best you could, son."

Sam nodded, in acknowledgement of the man's kindness more than in agreement. He watched as the man spoke quietly with Bobby for a minute, then left the cubicle. Closing his eyes, he slumped in his chair, wanting to cry.

He wanted his father, but - Dad would be so _mad_. Sam had broken practically every rule they had. Don't leave the house without your brother. Don't hang out with strangers. Go to school, then come straight home.

Train. Salt. Ward. Memorize. Hunt. Isolate. Stick with family. Simple rules to follow. Why hadn't he listened?

He was an idiot, that's why. A stupid fucking idiot. If only he'd listened, Joey would still be alive, not stuffed in some morgue refrigerator, heading for a hole in the ground and eternity. His hands started to shake and he knotted them together, trying to quiet them.

Dean leaned over, laid a gentle hand on his arm. "Take it easy, kid."

Sam jerked violently away from him. "_Don't call me that_!" His voice was shrill.

Dean looked at him in shock. "Sam?"

The doctor, who'd been waiting outside, pulled aside the curtain and stepped inside the cubicle, the policeman outside looking in.

"Sam," Dean said, leaning in, looking into his brother's eyes. "It's okay."

"Stop saying that." Sam's voice was shaking. "You keep saying that. It's not gonna be okay. Joey's _dead_, how can it be okay?"

Sam saw the doctor coming toward him, knew that if he couldn't pull it together, they were going to force a sedative on him, and he couldn't bear that. To be asleep, not able to wake up, the prisoner of whatever nightmares he was sure were waiting for him – _no_.

With a massive effort of will, he managed to pull himself back from the edge. He placed his hand in Dean's. "I'm sorry," he said clearly. He cut his eyes meaningfully to the doctor and Dean, of course, understood. He stood, placed himself between Sam and the doctor, who already had a hypodermic in his hand.

"We're good. He doesn't need that." He held the doctor's gaze, ready to do battle, but the doctor apparently read him pretty well. He nodded and, with a final searching glance at Sam, left the cubicle.

Dean looked at Sam. "You ready to get out of here?"

Sam nodded, clutching Dean's hand tightly.

Stay strong. Hold on. Just - hold on.

Don't be a fucking baby.


	6. Chapter 6

Sorry this is late. Last chapter. Thanks to one and all who read and reviewed. Hope this ending does it for you!

(((((((((())))))))))

Dean made Sam eat a bowl of soup and some toast, though the boy was half asleep for most of it. Then the two of them fell asleep on the bed in Bobby's spare room and slept through the rest of the day and most of the night as well.

When Dean woke in the early hours of the morning, he knew immediately that Sam was awake as well.

"You okay, Sammy?" he murmured sleepily.

"I'm fine."

Dean stretched, yawned. "You hungry?"

"Not really," Sam said quietly. "Thanks."

"I am. Freaking _starving_." He rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "I'm gonna go make some eggs."

"Okay."

Dean got up, paused uncertainly at the door. "Sam?"

Sam turned his head, looked at his brother. "Yeah?"

"I know it doesn't feel like it right now, but this - it's gonna get easier."

Sam went back to staring up at the ceiling. "Yeah. Well. Maybe it shouldn't."

Sighing, Dean left the bedroom, feeling helpless. Three days since they'd brought Sam to Bobby's place from the hospital. Three days. Sam had spent most of it in bed - sleeping, not sleeping, who the hell knew.

All Dean knew was that the kid wasn't talking. Not to him _or _Bobby. This thing with Joey was eating his heart out and Dean didn't know how to help him.

Yeah, sure, he'd told his brother that bullshit about time making things better, but just how _much _time? How long before Sam didn't feel like he'd personally thrown Joey off that building? How long before he stopped flinching at every goddamned sound? And just how damn long before their father showed up?

Dean knew, he _knew _that was part of what was bugging Sam. The kid could deny it all he wanted, but he knew Sam as well as he knew himself - _better_. He _knew _the way his brain worked. He was working himself around to believing that either Dad was dead, or that he hadn't come because he was pissed at Sam about what had happened.

Probably some weird Sammy combo of both.

Dean continued down the stairs to the kitchen. Screw it. For now, he'd just hang in, be there for his brother, whatever he needed.

But he knew one thing. Sooner or later, Sam _would _talk. Dean would make damned sure of it.

Downstairs, late, or early, as it was, Bobby was already up. Dean found him in the kitchen, starting a pot of coffee.

"Hey, Bobby."

"Hey, kid."

"Thought I'd make some eggs," Dean said. "You want some?"

"Yeah, sure." Bobby sat down at the kitchen table to wait out the coffee. He watched as Dean busied himself pulling out the big cast iron skillet, threw in a pound of bacon and set it to cook on the big gas stove. Then he started breaking eggs into a mixing bowl.

"Gonna make someone a great wife one day, boy."

Dean grinned at the eggs. "Bite me, old man."

"How's your brother?"

Dean shrugged.

"Hell of a thing," Bobby mused. "Hard on the boy."

Dean grunted, picking a stray piece of shell out of the eggs.

"Hard on _you_," Bobby continued.

The teen shrugged. "Sam's back. I'm good. I just want to get things back to normal for him. " He pulled a whisk out of a drawer, started beating hell out of the eggs.

Bobby sighed. Damned Winchesters. Close-mouthed as ticks, all of 'em. He heaved himself up, took a look at the sizzling bacon, started turning it over with a fork. When the last of it was done and draining, Dean dumped the bowl of eggs into the pan.

When the eggs were almost done, Sam appeared in the doorway, hollow-eyed and pale.

"Morning, Sam," Bobby said, carefully casual.

Dean looked over his shoulder, smiled. "Hey, you change your mind about breakfast?"

Sam yawned. "Smelled the bacon all the way upstairs. Did you make enough for three?"

Bobby snorted. "You kidding? Your brother eats enough for three, so he cooks enough for six!" He motioned to the bacon. "Help yourself."

That earned a mock scowl out of Dean; a wan smile from Sam.

Sam ate more than he'd thought he would, less than they were hoping. When they'd finished eating, the three cleaned up together. Once the kitchen was clean, Sam said, yawning, "I'm going back to bed."

"Already?" Dean cursed himself as Sam flushed and turned away. "Uh, want me to come up with you?"

"No, thanks, I'm good." Sam left the kitchen, Dean following as far as the door. He watched his brother climb the stairs and go into their room, head down and feet dragging.

Bobby watched him sympathetically. "He's gonna be okay. Just give him time."

Dean nodded, still staring after Sam. "I know. I just - where the hell is Dad?"

(((((((((())))))))))

Two hours later, sitting on the front porch with Bobby, Sam still asleep upstairs, Dean watched nervously as his father's truck pulled up the drive and parked in front of the house.

He rose from his chair, a quiver in his stomach, watching as his father climbed laboriously out of the truck, hanging onto the truck door with one hand and a cane with the other.

Careful not to run, not to scream at him, Dean went to his father, noting the shadowed eyes, the thin face. "Dad. Good to see you. You all right?"

John's dark eyes were impenetrable. "Did you find Sam?"

Dean flushed. "He's inside."

"Then I'm all right."

John started to limp toward the house, cane digging into the hard-scrabble earth. After a few steps, Dean put an arm around him and helped him into the house. John let him; a clear testament to just how crappy the man felt.

Once he was settled on the couch, John took the glass of whiskey that Bobby thrust at him with a nod of thanks. He drained it, sighed and closed his eyes, leaning his head back. After a couple of minutes, he looked up at his eldest son.

"What the hell happened, Dean?"

Concisely, precisely, Dean went over the last week for his father. He left nothing out, said nothing to downplay his responsibility, or Sam's. The whole truth and nothing but.

John didn't speak throughout the monologue, didn't even move, except for the occasional twitch. Once it was over, he gave a huge sigh. "Okay."

He turned to Bobby, who was standing nearby, watching. "Thanks for stepping in. I owe you."

"So what the hell else is new?" Bobby filled John's glass again.

John offered up a tired smile in thanks. "Anything to eat?"

"I expect I can dig something up." Bobby stomped off toward the kitchen, muttering something about plagues of locusts and Winchesters.

John swallowed half the second glass of whiskey, slumped further down onto the couch. After a minute, the intense stare being directed at him became too difficult to ignore. He looked up at Dean. "What is it, son?"

"Dad - what the _hell_?"

"What?" John asked in a tone of mild surprise.

"I thought you'd have your foot halfway up my _ass _by now, and all you've got to say is '_Okay'_?"

John smiled faintly. "Do you _want_ my foot up your ass?"

Dean goggled at him. "No, but - "

"You screwed up," said John tiredly. "So did Sam. But I'm too beat to rip you a new one right now. Maybe later, after I've had something to eat and a few hours sleep." He held out a hand. "Help me up?"

))))))))))((((((((((

_The window slid open silently. The intruder waited a long moment, watching the sleeper. _

_When the boy didn't move, the man slid easily through the window, in spite of his size. He crept across the room and stood over the bed, staring down at the huddled form with hot, covetous eyes. _

"_Told you I'd be back, wildcat," Mitch whispered, and bent over the bed._

))))))))))((((((((((

Sam screamed.

"Oh, _crap_!" Heart leaping in his chest, Dean yanked his father up from the couch, then deserted him, running for the stairs. Ignoring his cane, and the pain in his leg, the older man ran after him; Bobby appearing from the kitchen, following close behind.

Sam screamed again as his older brother reached the top of the stairs, the sound trailing off into a series of incoherent sobs and moans. Dean burst through the bedroom door to see him sitting up in bed, hands clamped over his mouth, staring at the window with terror-stricken eyes. He was alone.

"Sammy!" Dean ran to his brother, touching his thin shoulder. With a harsh cry of protest the boy struck out, landing a hard blow to Dean's mouth, sending him sprawling backward off the bed.

"Sam, stop!" Limping heavily, John came through the door and took Sam firmly by the shoulders. At the feel of his big hands, Sam stiffened, crumpled and fell limply into his father's arms.

(((((((((())))))))))

Sam opened his eyes.

"Hey, Sammy, 'bout time you woke up."

At the familiar gruff voice, Sam's eyes flew to his father, sitting next to him on the bed. "Dad?" Tears starting to his eyes, he threw himself into his father's arms. "Dad!"

John hugged him. "Sam," he murmured. "Son." Feeling the violent tremors running through his son, he murmured comfortingly, "It's okay, Sam. I'm here."

Dean and Bobby watched the reunion with relief. After a minute, feeling a little fourth-wheelish, Bobby muttered something to Dean about fixing dinner and left the three Winchesters alone.

Sam settled down after a few minutes and pulled back from his father, a little embarrassed. "Are you okay, Dad?"

John smiled. "My leg's a little banged up but I'm good." He looked at Sam, knew well enough what he was wondering, what Dean hadn't dared to asked.

"I'm sorry, Sam, that I wasn't here sooner. I was in a pretty isolated area and my cell reception wasn't good. I didn't get Dean's messages until last night. Got here as fast as I could."

Sam grinned. None of that mattered now. Their father was home. Alive. Safe.

"It's okay, Dad. We knew you'd come." He looked happily at Dean, then froze, his big brother's split lip drawing his immediate attention. "Dean? What happened?"

"_You _happened, Samantha," Dean said teasingly. "You pack quite a punch for a girl."

"_Me_?" Sam stared at him, confused. "What are you talking about?"

"Don't worry about it, Sammy," Dean said lightly. "You were having a nightmare and I got in the way."

Sam gazed at his brother, hazel eyes wide with distress.

"Seriously, man, no big deal," Dean repeated gently. After a minute, Sam accepted that, though not happily and turned back to his father.

"I stopped in Evanston and talked with Detective Portillo and his partner," John said to his youngest. "They've got a few leads on the people who took you. Portillo said he'd call ifthey make any arrests."

Sam's shoulders hunched and he lowered his eyes to the bed.

Dean took up the slack for his silent brother. "You think they're going to find anyone?"

"I doubt they're waiting around. They've probably moved on to a new hunting ground." John reached out a hand and ruffled his son's dark hair. "I'm sorry about your friend, son."

Sam pulled away and climbed off the bed. "I'm glad you're back, Dad. I'm gonna take a shower, okay?"

As the two men watched with concern, Sam gathered up his jeans and a sweatshirt and headed for the bathroom.

After a minute, with a muffled curse, Dean got up to follow him.

"Let him go, Dean. Give him a little space."

"I've been giving him space, Dad," Dean protested. He touched his lip, wincing, but sat down reluctantly on the bed. "Look what that got me."

John chose his next words with care.

"I know it's hard, but Sam's going to have to work his own way through this on his own, if he can."

Dean glared at him in outrage and John laughed. "Dean, calm down. I'm not saying you can't be there for him. I'm just saying - it's going to be up to him, ultimately."

Seeing that Dean wasn't getting it, John went on. "Sam may _never _get over this, not completely. You know what he's like. Compassionate. Thin-skinned. He feels _everything_, and much too strongly for his own good."

Dean bristled at the perceived insult and John gave him a stern look. "It's a weakness in our line of work, Dean. Sam has always left himself wide open, to everyone and everything. He's got to learn.

"Learn what?" Dean asked.

"That aside from family, _everyone _is an enemy."

Dean gaped at him in astonishment. "Jesus, Dad!"

"Dean -" John sighed with exasperation. "This is something I never had to teach you. You learned, when your Mom died, that there are monsters _everywhere_." He waited until Dean gave him an understanding nod, then continued.

"They're always looking for prey - stalking their next victim, waiting for them to drop their guard. And sometimes, the monsters -" John shrugged - "they're not human."

"Sam has to learn that when he leaves the house in the morning, he's in enemy territory. He has to watch both for what's there and what's not there."

"When a stranger asks for directions, he has to look beyond their words. What do they really want? Are they going to hurt me? There are millions of ways for Sam to screw up and get hurt or killed. He has to learn this lesson or he'll never make it."

"The lesson is family, Dean. That's all we can count on. Everyone else is either an enemy or a cipher."

Dean hardly knew what to say. "Dad, that's so fucked _up_."

"No, Dean," John said firmly. "That's just life."

There was a small sound at the door and they looked to see Sam standing there, unshowered, head hanging down, looking up at them from underneath his shaggy dark bangs.

"You heard all that?" John asked sternly.

"Yes sir," Sam mumbled.

"Good. I meant every word of it. I want you to think about it and remember it, because it's the most important thing I'll ever teach you." He sighed. "Come here, son."

Sam came forward and looked into his father's face.

"I never wanted this for you, Sam. The thought of you being in the hands of people like that - it's enough to make any father go insane. I try to protect you, we try to protect you - hell, your brother guards you like a rabid dog - " Dean scoffed - but this one got past us.'

"I know you're having a hard time with what happened to your friend - " Sam tried to pull away, but John held firm - "Sam, _listen_: I want you to try to look at this as a lesson that life decided to teach you. You were lucky enough to live through it. Joey _lost his life _learning it. In a way, you're living his life along with your own. You make damned sure you don't waste it."

After a moment, Sam nodded reluctantly. "I understand, Dad. I'll try." He looked at the two of them, then said reluctantly. "I have to tell you guys something."

"What?" Dean said suspiciously.

"I didn't tell you everything that happened before," Sam said, shamefaced.

"What didn't you tell me, Sam?" Dean didn't even try to hide the anger in his voice.

"Mitch," Sam whispered, just the name bringing the bitter taste of terror to his mouth.

"What, Sam?" Dean bit off.

Sam took a breath. "After Joey - Mitch tried to pull me in off the ledge, he wanted me to go with them. I wouldn't go in to him, I wouldn't let him open the window -"

Dean frowned. "How could you stop him?"

Sam looked away guiltily.

"Oh _hell_, no! You threatened to jump, didn't you? _Damn _it!"

"Don't be mad at me, Dean," Sam begged him. "Please, don't be mad. Mitch is, he's so, I was so _scared _-" he stopped, eyes filling with bright tears.

John put a hand on Dean's shoulder. "Son."

Dean subsided and John nodded at Sam. "Go ahead."

Sam stared at his brother worriedly.

"Sam."

The boy's eyes flew to his father.

"Whatever it is, we'll handle it." John said firmly.

Sam's lip trembled.

"Sam, just say it!" Dean said, patience ebbing. "What the hell could be so bad?"

_That _did it.

"Dean, he's coming _back _for me," Sam blurted out and burst into tears. "He doesn't want to sell me, he wants _me_, he wants to _keep _me. He's coming back and he wants - he wants - he's going to -"

Sam's voice was rising, the words tumbling out of his mouth, terror on his face as he remembered Mitch's eyes, his hands, his _face _when he looked at Sam.

"Oh, Sammy." Heart breaking, Dean pulled his weeping brother into his arms and hugged him. "He's not getting anywhere near you, not ever again, I _promise_."

Sam burrowed into his brother's arms. "Salt won't keep him out," he whispered desperately. "Wards won't keep him out. He's human. I don't know what to do."

"He can die, same as anything else," Dean snapped. "He comes near you, he's fucking dead."

John rubbed a comforting hand on Sam's back, relieved that Sam's confession hadn't been about something more - physical.

"He'll never be able to find you, Sam," he assured the frightened boy. "We're off the grid, on the road all the time. No fixed address. There's no way for him to find you."

"What - what if - the police catch him?" Sam said, trying to choke back his sobs. "What if I have to go to court? I don't want to see him again, I don't want to, ever, _ever_!"

"Don't worry, Sam," John said. "I'll make sure you never have to go to court."

He looked at Dean, knew they were thinking the same thing. Sam appearing in open court would be a disaster. Any halfway decent defense attorney would put a microscope on the Winchester family. That microscope would bring up stuff that would practically guarantee Sam's being taken away from them.

So, no court. Period.

"If he's arrested," John said carefully, "We'll take care of him ourselves."

Sam looked at him, face wet with tears, eyes pleading. "You promise? You _swear_?"

John raised his right hand, looked into his son's eyes and swore.

"On your mother's grave."

THE END

(((((((((())))))))))

Mitch and his hellbitch mother will be making a reappearance in my sequel to The Fledgling. It will pick up 4 years in the future, when Dean is 20, and Sam 16. Won't be writing it for a few months, though, 'cause I've got a couple other things cooking.

Thanks for hanging in and reading, guys!

Reviews are GREATLY appreciated.


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